


The 107th

by the_authors_exploits



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Disabilities, M/M, MCR inspired, No Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 10:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12933147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: It takes and it takes, butIkeep living anywaysThere was one letter never mailed, so Dum Dum and Jim take it upon themselves to deliver it





	The 107th

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Sto siódma](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16285535) by [SilverWolf13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWolf13/pseuds/SilverWolf13)



> [inspired by The Ghost of You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCUpvTMis-Y)

The ride to Brooklyn takes less time than Dum Dum had anticipated; or maybe he just wishes it had taken longer… Glancing over at Jim, it would appear he feels the same way; still, bags slung over their shoulders and an unmailed letter in their hand, they move out.

The war hasn’t ended yet, but still women approach them with tears in their eyes and thank them; shake their hand, ask if they have a place to stay, to eat, if they need anything. Maybe it’s the sympathy Dum Dum’s bum leg invokes, or just loyalty to the khakis and greens and camo they wear; maybe it’s how Jim is missing an eye and four fingers, or maybe it’s the vacancy in their souls or the ghosts that they carry.

They politely decline every invitation; this isn’t even home for them. Jim has talked about going back to Fresno, but Timothy has a feeling he won’t. Home is not home anymore; who knows, they may just scatter to the wind like vagabonds with nowhere to go. A broken gun no longer of use.

Jim glances at the letter, as if to confirm where they’re going, and Dum Dum leans against him; taking weight off his lame leg, he glances out to the streets. They bustle with activity, and a honking car makes him want to grab Jim and duck for cover; but a woman laughs, and there’s no laughter on the battlefield, so Dum Dum relaxes and Jim asks him to find a street named Leaman Place.

“Eyes aren’t what they used to be.” Jim smirks; one eye blinks and the other is stitched shut under gauze.

Dum Dum leads, his slow pace fine with Jim; it takes them a while, crossing streets and asking for directions a few times, before they find 569 Leaman Place. It’s a tattered house, little more than three rooms, squashed between other littler houses and apartment buildings.

They stand at the doorway for a while in silence, almost daring the other one to disturb the peace first; they’ve faced nazis, enemies they couldn’t see across no man’s land, bayonets and bullets. But a wooden door, or perhaps the paper in Jim’s hand, stops them still.

Jim knocks; there’s a hoarse cough from the other side before the door creaks open. A punk stands there, under layers of rotten sweaters, color high on his cheeks and charcoal smudged on his fingers; he rubs his hands together and swallows, painfully.

“Can I help you?” his eyes are earnest; Jim doesn’t doubt he’d give his sweaters if they asked, despite the autumn chill and fever he’s fighting.

Dum Dum speaks first. “We’re lookin’ for a,” he glances at the letter. “An _S. Rogers_ ; got a letter to deliver.”

“Th-that’d be me?”

A question; uncertainty. Dum Dum barely catches it; they’d been expecting a she, the way James had fawned over his “little friend back home”. He’d played it safe, obviously, softening the v of Steve to make it sound like Steph; what fools the commandos had been. But they won’t judge; not now, after everything, so Jim clears his throat and holds the wrinkled letter out.

“Uh…Barnes, he uh…”

Rogers’ eyes go wide and he straightens, vibrating, roving from one person to the other. “Bucky? What happened? Is he ok?” Steve takes the paper, rips it open, scans it quickly; he sags in relief, looking back up at them. Just a normal letter, then. “Is he coming home?”

Dum Dum shifts; his leg aches, but not as much as his heart. “Um…”

“I’m sorry,” Jim interjects. His gaze is going over Steve’s shoulder, not hard with how tiny he is, and he blinks slowly at the sketches scattered all over the dank room. “We were captured; and he…”

Silence; apparently neither one can say it. They don’t have to, because Steve stops breathing and his entire face drops; it shatters as it goes, like a fine china plate in a fancy restaurant, leaving nothing but waves of agony behind.

“He’s…” Steve sobs, chokes, coughs; he stumbles out onto the porch as a wind kicks up, and Dum Dum shifts to block him from it. “No, he’s not!”

“I’m sorry,” Jim repeats.

“He’s coming home!”

Dum Dum parrots “I’m sorry”, pointless salves to a lethal wound; Steve shakes his head.

“He said he’d come back; we… I…” He clutches the letter close, and Dum Dum doesn’t know what else to do other than hug the kid.

Wraps him in his big arms, holds him close against his chest as Steve wails and shrieks; they keep each other up, Steve compensating for Dum Dum’s injury and Dum Dum for Steve’s emotions.

Bucky died in Jim’s arms; Steve dies in Dum Dum’s.


End file.
